


hair

by pissedofsandwich



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: D/s undertones, Fluff, Hair-pulling, M/M, doggo says not before MY breakfast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27400570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pissedofsandwich/pseuds/pissedofsandwich
Summary: "Sweet breakfast baby," he says to his dog grimly, "I love you even if you totally just cockblocked your dads."
Relationships: Hirugami Sachirou/Hoshiumi Kourai
Comments: 11
Kudos: 132





	hair

**Author's Note:**

> hello. the new content from vol. 45 really killed me. they are so married.

Kourai is staring.

"Quit it," Sachirou says, not bothering to open his eyes.

From somewhere beside him on the bed, Kourai makes an indignant squawk. "I thought you were sleeping," Kourai says. Sachirou can  _ hear  _ the pout. 

"I  _ was _ ," he says, cracking open one eye. The digital clock mounted on the wall opposite of his bed reads 8 am. Far too early for either of them to be awake, but that's what he gets for dating an athlete, he supposes. Different body clock and all that.

"How do you know I was staring then?" 

"I just do," Sachirou says, settling onto his side with his head resting on one elbow. "So you admit to staring then?"

"It's not like I was hiding it," Kourai huffs, reaching out to muss up his hair. "Your hair is so curly."

Oh, so that's what he was staring at. "I decided to stop straightening it," he says. Kourai makes another squawk, this time colored with disbelief. 

"You mean this is your natural hair texture?" Kourai says, tugging mildly at his hair, which is something he'd enjoy during other… activities, but in the morning, with sleep barely clinging to his eyelids, not so much. 

"Yes, and—would you stop that?" he grumbles, lightly swatting at Kourai's hands. "I promise it's not that deep."

"Not that deep?" Kourai lets go of his hair, sitting up on the bed. Half of his body is lit by the sunlight streaming through the window. They must've forgotten to close the blinds last night—not that Sachirou is complaining. Kourai looks stunning like this, like he belongs next to Michelangelo's best works. "Do you know how many times I've caught girls back in high school fangirling over your hair?"

"Uh, let me guess," Sachirou leans back, pretending to think hard. "Seven hundred and twenty one?"

Kourai crosses his arms over his chest. "You're just being a shit now."

"A shit that you love very much."

"I'm starting to reconsider that."

In mock-hurt, Sachirou clutches at his chest. "Because I no longer straightened my hair?"

"How did I not know?" Kourai demands, lunging at him. Now on top of Sachirou, his hands fly again to the sides of hair, fingers buried in the messy curls. "We went to high school together! I should've seen you straighten it at least once!"

"'Cos I got it, like, chemically straightened in high school. You know, like Shouko's? And when it wore off I just—decided to stop doing it," Sachirou answers. "Why are you being so dramatic about it? It's not like I lied to you."

"No," Kourai says. 

Sachirou pulls him close. "Then why?"

There's a beat before he says, "Because I should know."

Sachirou frowns. "There's no way you would've."

And as soon as the words are out, it clicks. _Of course_ there's no way Kourai would know, because until last night, they weren't even living and breathing in the same country—let alone city. Separated by time and distance, only seeing each other through Skype, the subtle differences like how Sachirou started wearing his natural curls would escape Kourai's notice. 

"That's the thing," Kourai sighs. "I missed a lot of things."

"It's not a big deal, hey," Sachirou nudges him. "I mean, Mom barely noticed."

"'Cos she sees you every day! The little differences are harder to notice!"

"Then it shouldn't matter if you didn't notice, right? I don't mind," he runs his fingers through Kourai's short-cropped hair. "You know now, and that's what matters."

Kourai doesn't look satisfied with that answer. "I guess," he lets up finally. His hands are still in Sachirou's hair. Sachirou's own has moved down to his neck, interlocking just at the nape. "I just don't want to miss any single thing."

Sachirou gasps when he feels a harder tug at his hair. Suddenly, it becomes very, very clear to him that they are both very, very naked. "I'll tell you every single thing you miss, if that'll appease you," he says, suddenly feeling like his throat is Sahara-dry. 

Kourai just hums, low in his throat. He doesn't let go of Sachirou's hair. It will be uncomfortable if it doesn't wake up another part of Sachirou that's way, way down south. Kourai remains impassive to the… _not-so-little_ development, maybe deliberately so. He looks thoughtful, eyes alert like he's in the middle of the game, all his focus on Sachirou. "Sure," Kourai says.

"Um," Sachirou says, half nervous laughter, "you still haven't let go of my hair."

"I like it," Kourai says. 

"Yes, does that mean you have to be touching it twenty-four sev—" he cuts off with another gasp, surprised at the sudden tightness in Kourai's grip, but so, so into it. Memories of last night come flooding back in: shedding their clothes even before they were through the door, being on his knees, mouth on Kourai, hair in his grip, then bent over the bed, taking Kourai. 

"Okay?" Kourai asks.

"I'm not complaining," Sachirou says, breathless. 

"Stoplight system?"

"Yes."

"Your color?"

"Motherfucking  _ green _ , come on—"

Sachirou sees stars.

It's in this moment that he remembers—those hands belong to a national team calibre spiker. Kourai's pulling his head back, baring his throat with it. The pain is welcome, sweet after all these months of nothing but rushed, red-faced dirty talk over Skype. He would be embarrassed at how much this turns him on if not for the fact that he can feel Kourai hardening against his stomach, heavy on his belly button. "Kourai-kun," he whines, then again, "Kourai-kun."

The hand doesn't loosen. His hands fall away, curling at the sheets. Kourai just pulls harder, almost to the point of tears, and just when he's sure it's gotten too much, he feels a touch on his length, a fluttery little thing, but enough to make him jump. Pain merges with pleasure, and he hisses, confusing the two as Kourai's fingers catch at the tip, then circle down to the base, light on his balls. Slip right past, down to his taint and—

There's a whine at the door. It's not coming from him.

A scratch on the wood.

"That's Kotarou, isn't it," Kourai says, flat-faced. 

"Oh my  _ god _ ," Sachirou says, covering his eyes with his arms.

With the mood completely dead, mournfully, regretfully, Kourai lets go of both his hands. Just like that, they are both completely soft.

"Well," Kourai muses, "we kind of have been neglecting him since last night."

"Bad parents," Sachirou jabs playfully at Kourai's ribs. 

"Excuse me? You're the one who decided to sexile our dog!"

"Would you rather fuck me with the dog watching?"

"Sachirou! Don't you dare disrespect our child— "

On that note, they tumble out of bed, collecting the clothes they scattered on the floor. While Kourai puts on last night t-shirt, Sachirou decides they don't have to afford their dog more decency than a pair of pants, and wanders out shirtless. As expected, Kotarou is waiting at the door, ears drooping, eyes big and pleading. 

"Oh, it's coming, Kotarou," Sachirou says, scratching the back of his ears as Kourai bypasses them entirely and beelines straight for the coffee pot. Kotarou follows him as he unloads the dog food into the little green bowl Fukurou bought two years ago as his graduation gift. "Sweet breakfast baby," he says to his dog grimly, "I love you even if you totally just cockblocked your dads."

Kourai snickers somewhere from the kitchen. Sachirou rolls his eyes, vowing to himself to make Kourai deliver on what he started, preferably sooner than later. He hears the coffee pot starting, then the stove, Kourai cursing about accidentally leaving shells in his eggs. He gets up, leaving Kotarou to his breakfast, and trudges into the kitchen, where he finds—as expected—Kourai struggling with getting the shell out of his scrambled eggs. Sachirou decides to sit on the stool next to the kitchen aisle and watches him with amusement, chin in hands. He can get used to this, he thinks. Waking up every morning to Kourai fighting with his scrambled eggs, Kotarou diligently licking his bowl clean in another corner. Blissful domesticity.

Kourai finally manages to egg—ha—the shell out with the edge of his spatula and makes a tiny triumphant noise. If Sachirou isn't already hiding the ring in the pocket of his jacket, this will probably be the moment he decides to marry him. 

"You conquered the eggs?" he asks as Kourai takes the pan off the heat.

"I win every time," Kourai tells him smugly, and really—Sachirou just has to kiss him for that. 


End file.
